


World of Warcraft Soulmate AUs

by Laeviss



Series: Wranduin! [5]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Aura - Freeform, Canonical Character Death, Clocks, Inner Dialogue, M/M, Mild Violence Discussion, Names, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23548459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: Soulmate markings, AUs, and other tropes for some of my favorite Warcraft pairings.
Relationships: Garrosh Hellscream/Varian Wrynn, Left/Right (Warcraft), Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Series: Wranduin! [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756381
Comments: 36
Kudos: 101





	1. Inner Voice (Wranduin)

**Author's Note:**

> I've recently discovered Soulmate AUs and tropes, and I wanted to play around with a few for some of my Warcraft ships. I'm probably going to focus on Wranduin and Varrosh for now!

_Inner Voice_ : Hearing your soulmate's voice in the back of your mind

♥ ♥ ♥

‘Who does he think he is, talking to you like _that?'_

Anduin’s eyes opened with a start. The thought that had come to him was so unexpected—so _unbidden_ —that it left him feeling like he’d said a bad word. He pursed his lips and stared into his father’s eyes. After a swallow, he tried his voice again, praying it would remain calm despite the roiling in his chest. 

“But father, our champions have already assembled in the Caverns of Time. We cannot stand behind them while we’re still waging war on so many fronts. You’ve agreed to back Thrall, and I’m grateful to you—”

At that, Varian let out a grunt, but despite the twitch Anduin caught at the corners of his lips, the king thankfully didn’t interrupt. 

“—But without at least a temporary truce, it’s hard to say we’re really standing together. It feels like we're conflicted, and I don't want to send the wrong message. Don't you understand, father?”

Anduin’s voice cracked on the final notes of his speech. He felt a rush of blood to his cheeks, but, even worse, a sly smirk that spread through his mind and threatened to overcome his face. He couldn’t imagine where this feeling of defiance was coming from, but he didn’t hate it, either. 

It gave him the strength to dig his heels into the Keep’s wooden floor and stare into the king’s hazel eyes. It made him straighten his shoulders, tilt up his chin, and bring his arms together across his slender chest. 

“I do, but there is much _you_ don’t understand, Anduin,” his father let out a sigh, doing nothing to hide his exasperation. 

He might have said more, but Anduin didn’t hear it. The voice had already returned to coo in the back of his mind: ‘Much you don’t understand? But what about what _he_ doesn’t understand, hm? How many summits has he attended? What does he know of the situation on Kalimdor?’

Knowing he shouldn’t challenge his father’s experiences, but feeling emboldened nonetheless, Anduin countered in a soft voice, “And you, father, as well. Please, trust me on this.”

“Anduin.”

“Please.”

Silence descended between father and son, and the voice added, sharp and to-the-point, ‘If he doesn’t listen, you could always give the order yourself, you know. Who are your troops to refuse you?’

‘I can’t do that. I’m only thirteen, and even if they _did_ listen, father could have their heads for it!’

‘And what if he does? What are a few lost lives against the utter destruction Deathwing wishes to unleash?’

‘I—’ Anduin felt his stomach churn at the thought. The blood that had reached his cheeks drained away, and he was left feeling cold in its wake. He swallowed. His brows knit together, ‘I don’t like that.’

‘Like it or not, dear prince, that’s where we stand.’

‘Please stop.’

‘Suit yourself. But oh, your father is speaking. Run back to him if you wish. I’ll simply observe…for now.’

As uneasy as the monologue (Or was it a dialogue? He couldn't be sure) made him feel, Anduin willed any upset from his face. His father, indeed, was speaking, and regarding him with a resigned look. 

“If you insist on this, Anduin, I’m willing to send the order—”

The prince brightened. His eyes widened, and the knot in the pit of his stomach started to unwind. Even when his father went on to clarify, it couldn’t dampen his spirits. 

“—But know that the moment Deathwing is slain, our efforts in the Southern Barrens will resume. I cannot throw the only foothold we’ve gained in the region, not while Hellscream lords over Orgrimmar.”

Anduin nodded, and his thoughts strayed again to the voice. Whatever it had been, perhaps it hadn’t been as unwelcome as he had thought. Maybe this is what Jaina had meant when she had explained all the impulses that might come with adulthood, and why it was vital for him to be his own person. He smiled to himself, and the voice smiled back. He felt it down to the core of his being. 

With that, he whispered his thanks to his father, turned on his heels, and all but skipped down the hall to his bedchamber. 

That same voice would come to him now and again when he was feeling particularly conflicted. It asked him to travel to Theramore, then urged him to escape Si:7 and flee further into Pandaria in search of the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. It pondered Garrosh’s plans and bolstered his confidence as he stood beside Jaina and urged her to lend her mages to the Alliance. 

It came to him again, too, as his guards carried him on his pallet up to the Tavern in the Mists. It seemed strange to the prince at first; half-asleep and plagued with pain, he was hardly in a place to debate, even with his own inner voice. Cracking open one eye, he peeked off the edge of the bed. 

A pair of bright crimson eyes stared up at him—a slender boy, with his lips set in a line and his arms crossed over his chest.

“The Prince of Stormwind?” The boy inquired, in a voice all too familiar to Anduin. “Oh dear, so the reports were true. Hellscream truly did do a number on him. Well, please come in, make yourselves at home. Tong, get our dear prince a bed, and perhaps a cup of that tea I adore so much. You know the one! Come on, hurry along.”

Anduin could barely make sense of the hustle of leather boots padding across the floor and the look his soldiers exchanged over top of him, but he knew one thing: when he lifted his head and croaked out his thanks, the Black Prince froze and dropped whatever act he was trying to put on.

Blue eyes met red, and the dragon’s jaw went slack. Shock turned to recognition, and recognition to a look of determination, like someone who had just been told a secret and was resolved to keep it to himself. 

Anduin’s soldiers carried him into the inn and hoisted him up the stairs, and behind them, Wrathion lingered, staring, uncharacteristically silent save for the greeting murmured in the back of Anduin's mind.


	2. Name (Varrosh)

_Name:_ Soulmates bear each other's signatures as marks on the skin of their wrists

♥ ♥ ♥

There was a mark on Varian’s arm. It had been there for as long as he could remember: a cluster of circles and jagged lines, too purposeful to be a standard birthmark but unlike anything he had ever encountered. He had heard the stories, of course, of those born marked by the name of their future lover, but no matter how many times he had lain awake at night as a child tracing the pad of his thumb along the bumps, he hadn’t found anything he could consider a letter.

To him, it had just looked ugly, especially when he had held it out next to Arthas’ flawless wrists and had caught the other prince wrinkling his nose. He took to hiding it after that. A leather strap or a sleeve tugged down to his hand usually did the trick. No one, not even his wife, needed to see it, he decided, and even when he was alone in the bath, he started crossing his arms over his chest and guarding it from his view.

So reluctant to look down at it, he almost forgot the details of its shape, and forgetting turned to oblivion when the rest of his memories were stripped away. He caught Reghar staring at it once after he removed his shirt for the night, but—meaningless as it had become to him—the question that formed on his lips never found voice. He simply rolled over and went to sleep. 

That was until one day when he crossed the threshold into the Valley of Honor and glanced over at a board by the gate. On it was pinned a piece of parchment painted with the yelling face of an orc and a series of lines and circles, the first few of which looked strikingly familiar.

The slave froze. With his arms chained in front of him, he could not push up his sleeve to check, but he knew—he _knew_ —that mark was his mark, his scar, one of the few traces left on him of the life he had all but forgotten. He tried to take a step towards it, but the chains connecting him to his master proved unyielding. 

He grimaced. Rehgar pulled harder. He dug his boots into the mud, but the shaman barked back a warning he couldn’t dismiss: “Hey, get on with it. If we miss the sparring round, you’ll all be without food tonight.”

Not wanting his companions to be punished, the slave hung his head and complied. That screaming orc face wouldn’t leave his mind, however, nor would the way his heart clenched, then fluttered, as his eyes glimpsed those lines and circles that felt as if they belonged to him. 

That feeling stayed with the king when his own soul was put back together, but as he regained his memories, he also came back to his shame. After he returned to Stormwind, he willed his mind onto other matters. Like many of his experiences in Orgrimmar, even the pleasant took on a bitter aftertaste when he made sense of what had been done to him. 

He took to covering his arm once more and decided that there was nothing to be gained from seeking out the drawing of that orc with his sharp-toothed scream. 

A few months later, he arrived in Dalaran to speak to Archmage Rhonin. When he learned the mage had invited Thrall and the hot-headed general he had once encountered in Theramore, he was beside himself with frustration. He paced Rhonin’s office and growled when Jaina left him to greet the orcs at the door. By the time Thrall entered the room Varian was poised and ready to snap, so incredulous that anyone would think it appropriate to bring him here: after Varian’s enslavement, after the Wrathgate, after _everything._

The way the Warchief’s general snarled when he entered the room behind him only set the king even further on edge. 

“Who invited the dog?” Garrosh asked with his hand already gripping the hilt of his ax. 

“Garrosh,” Thrall warned, resting his hand against his shoulder. Varian couldn’t help but feel as if he were watching a hunter stay his pet, but he was too angry to be smug. He just watched the two—his eyes flashing and his lips pursed in a scowl—as they found their place at the opposite side of the room. 

But the general wasn’t dressed in his usual armor. Instead he wore only his tabard and kept his arms bare from his shoulders to his hands. The purple lamps lighting the archmage’s study played on his dark brown skin and shone upon a series of slanted bumps just above his wrist. 

It was in the same spot as Varian’s mark, and, moreover, something about it felt eerily familiar. The king took a step towards the table between them, using the maps spread out in front of Thrall as an excuse to stare at Garrosh’s large forearm. 

The closer he got, the more the mark took shape, and Varian soon found his own signature scrawled across the orc’s skin.

His heart stopped. He felt as if the wind had been knocked from his lungs, and he had to grit his teeth together to hold back a growl. Garrosh’s eyes widened, and his hand once again reached for the hilt of his ax, but he didn’t seem to understand the king’s shock nor why the human sputtered when he stared at his arm.

Only Thrall seemed to catch his meaning, clearing his throat, and pushing the map over to Varian’s side of the table. For a moment, their eyes met, and the desperation on the Warchief’s face communicated more than a thousand words could have ever explained.

‘He doesn’t know,’ Varian realized. With a shaky exhale, he balled his own hands into fists at his side and forced down a wave of nausea. Under Garrosh’s gaze, he found himself shaking: fear and disgust and paranoia crashed down upon him, and on top of it all, that same sharp-toothed yell that had haunted him since that day in Orgrimmar. 

“What is it, Wrynn?” Garrosh taunted. “Never seen a Mag’har before? You look like a frog when you gawk.”

“What was that?” He snarled, and his ire rose. Part of him knew he shouldn’t strike back, but with every nerve frayed and his mind at the end of its wits, he couldn’t stop himself from kicking the table to the side, scattering the papers on the floor, and grabbing Garrosh's hand away from his ax.

His palm closed over the name on the general’s wrist, and he wished more than anything he could snatch it and take it away. It belonged to him, after all. It was his name, and no orc, no son of Grom Hellscream, would ever be allowed to complete him.

Or, at least, that’s what he wanted to think, but on contact a warmth spread from Varian’s heart to the very tips of his ears, and what should have been blinding rage became something troublingly, concerningly, and all too unwelcomely different. 

He blushed. Garrosh stared, and the world around them seemed to come crumbling down. When he came to, he was atop the orc and his palms were splayed across his chest. Their foreheads were pressed together, and Varian's lips were moving even as his mind begged him to stop, whispering through gritted teeth:

"You're mine."


	3. Glow (Wranduin)

_Glow:_ Seeing your soulmate's aura

♥ ♥ ♥

“Fifteen, may I ask you something?”

Wrathion waited until he caught a flicker of recognition in his agent’s eyes, but not so long as to entertain the possibility of being refused. He leaned the left side of his body against the bamboo wall of the Tavern, crossing his arms over his chest, and trying to sound as nonchalant as he could manage:

“Have you ever noticed a certain _light_ about his Highness? A halo of sorts, perhaps?”

The worgen agent grunted behind his mask. Wrathion took note of the muffled sound, but didn’t let it deter his questioning. Instead, he took a step forward, unfurling his arms, and tracing a rough outline of the prince’s shape in the space between him. He narrowed his eyes, determined to find some kind of logic in the otherwise-strange phenomenon.

“I, at first, assumed it had something to do with his use of the Light. I have seen my champions summon a golden light from within themselves to heal their wounds, after all, and it is no secret our dear prince has devoted himself to a similar area of study. But then I started thinking—”

As if he had lost interest in speaking to Agent Fifteen directly, Wrathion spun on his heels. He jogged up the steps into the main dining hall, and, with a dramatic wave of his hand, made sure to draw the attention of anyone who might not already have been listening. Not missing a beat, Wrathion headed for the keg by the door, picking up a mug, and filling it with beer. All the while, he continued his monologue.

“I started thinking, yes, while that does make perfect sense, I have never noticed any other Light user exuding that kind of energy: not my champions, nor Dezco, nor the healer who assisted me after we departed from Ravenholdt. It seems a bit strange, does it not?”

Again, the Black Prince did not wait for an answer. He paused only to press his mouth to the rim of his mug and take a swig of ale. Licking the foam from his upper lip, he didn't lift his gaze to check if people were listening. He didn’t need to. He could feel every eye upon him, and he reveled in it, grinning and savoring the raptness with which both agents and travelers seem to regard his musings. 

“But then I realized my oversight,” he continued, setting aside the mug on Tong’s cutting board so that he could regain full use of his hands. He extended them, curling his claw-tipped gloves to that they glimmered in the lantern light. “I realized that unlike the others, his Highness is clearly blessed by the Light: deeply and specifically. After all, he is a person of great importance. It only makes sense that he, of all people, might be the one who— _what_?”

Caught up in his narration, Wrathion had failed to notice Tong walking up beside him until he was nearly close enough to feel his heat. The pandaren grunted. In one hand, he held a cleaver, and in the other, some kind of root vegetable. Wrathion narrowed his eyes. He hated to be interrupted, let alone by whatever food-related question the cook likely wanted to ask. 

The dragon huffed. A few curls of smoke escaped from between his lips as he asked, again: “What, Tong? Whatever could you need to ask me that couldn’t wait until I was done?”

“Your beer,” the pandaren replied: simple and unperturbed. 

“My beer?” Wrathion’s voice, by contrast, rose both in volume and pitch. He glanced down at the mug, and then back into Tong’s tired eyes. “What about it?” He asked, but even as he said it, realization started to dawn on him.

“I need you to move your beer, if you would like to have supper before midnight.”

Oh. Yes. A bit of heat rose to Wrathion’s cheeks, but he hoped it would go unnoticed. He quickly collected the mug, wrapping both hands around it and clutching it to his chest. 

The cook mumbled something Wrathion couldn’t make out, shook his head, and then added, slightly louder: “And the Prince of Stormwind doesn’t glow.”

Wrathion felt his ire flare. As always, Tong didn’t seem to be trying to start a fight, but his words still left Wrathion reeling. Fighting back the urge to loudly insist that yes, of course Prince Anduin glowed, a very warm golden-green, in fact, and _no,_ Wrathion certainly was not imagining it, he instead turned his gaze to his spectators. Surely they understood what he meant.

His eyes first fell on Fifteen, who was still quietly waiting at the threshold, and then to Anduin’s guards, who, Wrathion realized, were trading uncomfortable glances. Finally, he sought out Left and Right by his usual table and found them staring. Left was pursing her lips into such a tight line they seemed to strain around her tusks, and Right’s own lips were twitching at the corners, barely containing whatever laugh threatened to break loose. 

If Wrathion’s cheeks were warm before, they now burned like his dragonfire. Crossing the room in a few quick bounds, he halted at his usual spot in front of his bench. His beer sloshed and dribbled onto his gloves, but what would have normally perturbed him couldn’t even draw his attention. Not now, at least. Not when his agents were… _laughing_ at him? Making him feel like a fool?

The Black Prince couldn’t stand for that, not even from Left and Right: no, _especially_ not from Left and Right. Glancing between them, he squared his shoulders, set his lips in a line, and regarded them with arched brows. No matter how much he straightened his back, he still felt dwarfed by their shadows, but he hoped what he lacked in stature he could make up for with the edge in his defiant voice.

“Well?” He prompted, again crossing his arms, “Is there some kind of joke I have missed, and if so, do you intend to fill me in? That is your job, is it not?”

He almost felt bad speaking to Right in this way. But surprisingly, nothing he said dampened her smile. She just shot Left another furtive glance, before lowering her voice, and explaining:

“You really see him glowing, don’t you, sir?”

“I do.” ‘Of course I do,’ he wanted to add, ‘Do you think I’d purposely embarrass myself like this?’

He didn’t say it, but it seemed he didn’t need to. Right’s smile widened, and she whispered, with far more excitement than he was used to seeing from her, “Like a halo? In gold and green light, you said?”

“Yes?” Normally the Black Prince might have lost his patience and tap his foot, but it was hard not to get caught up in his own curiosity. 

Left let out a grunt. Wrathion didn’t look at her. His crimson eyes remained fixed on his human guard, slit pupils widening to search her every feature. “That is what I said, is it not?” He continued, and to that, the human nodded. 

There was a pause: a few moments in which Right seemed to be debating whether she should continue. Finally, she made up her mind, and went on to clarify: “He’s your soulmate, sir.”

At that, Wrathion was certain he was being played for a fool. He sputtered. The heat on his cheeks shot to the tips of his ears. He shook his head, his gold earring jingling as it knocked against the line of his jaw. “My _soulmate?_ Right, who do you think I am? I may have hatched last year, but I am not some foolish child reading fairy stories. Surely you do not expect me to believe that.”

One glance from Right to Left, and from Left to Anduin’s guards, confirmed that they did, in fact, expect him to believe that. The blood that had made his face hot now drained from his cheeks, and his lips—lips he had kept pursed in an unyielding frown—went slack, and then parted. Every second brought a new realization: each one leaving him weaker than the last.

When he finally spoke again, it was in a strained voice, timid in a way that he loathed. He cleared his throat, but nothing could stop his heart from racing high in his chest. “My soulmate?” He tried the phrase again. Again, Left and Right nodded. 

He chose every word carefully, not wanting to embarrass himself more than he already had: “So you are suggesting that this glowing is some kind of signal to me that he and I are…?”

Right waited far longer than he would have liked to respond. She seemed to be assessing whether he intended to continue, however, and he couldn’t fault her for that. He eyed her, and finally she nodded, then replied, “Yes. It’s a signal. Prince Anduin glows yellow for you, just like Left glows grey for me.”

“And Right glows orange for me,” the orc added. Wrathion shot a quick glance to his left and found no hint of dishonesty on her face. While Right might occasionally tease, he knew Left didn’t have the impulse. 

They were telling the truth. The realization was enough to shake the dragon to his core. Soulmates, with the young prince Anduin. Perhaps that was why his heart always skipped a beat when they stepped into the same room. 

With thoughts of Anduin’s golden glow still on his mind, and the way his smile always left him tingling, Wrathion continued his inquiry with perhaps less reservation than he should have. “So if what you say is true,” he pointed out, “That means he must be aware, as well, yes? He must see something when he looks at me?”

“Presumably, yes.”

“But he might not realize what it means?”

“I don’t know, sir. Maybe you should ask him yourself.”

Wrathion assumed Right’s offer was merely hypothetical until he heard the squeal and shuffling of plate armor by the door off to their right. He turned and found the Stormwind guard snapping to attention. A slender figure wrapped in only a towel crossed over the threshold, his cane thumping slightly against the wood floor. A golden light filled the room when he stepped inside.

Anduin lifted his eyes in Wrathion’s direction. In his glow, it was easy to see the blush painting his pale cheeks. The dragon’s heart all but stopped, but he said nothing, letting the other prince regard him for a moment before turning to take the stairs.

The human prince did not speak until he had made it onto the landing. When he did, he neither turned back nor addressed Wrathion by his name. Instead he just murmured, quietly, and with a great deal of hesitation, a short “red,” and then, with a nervous chuckle, went on to add, “Your glow is red.”

The Black Prince froze, looked up at him with an awkward smile Anduin wouldn’t be able to see. With that, the Black Prince went suddenly—and uncharacteristically—silent.


	4. Clock (Varrosh)

_Clock:_ A clock tells the time of your soulmate’s death

♥♥♥

When it was Varian's time to be married, a Wildhammer shamaness sent him a pocket watch and a warning: this clock signals the time of death of your only soulmate. Proceed with a wary eye, and do not let the moment escape you.

Thinking it little more than a dwarfish superstition, he stole a fleeting glance at the hour and minute at which its hands had stopped—6:47—then tossed it into the pile of gifts he never expected to reopen. He shot Tiffin a look, then shrugged. He had been given no choice in the matter of his marriage, anyways, so even if the clock _did_ have something to tell him there was little he could gain from it. He could either stop twice a day and fret over his wife’s health, or wonder what he had missed when the House of Nobles had forced his hand.

It was easier to chalk it up to fairy tales, so he did. He forgot it, poured himself another glass of wine, and tried his best to focus on anything except his own unhappiness.

Tiffin died three years later, on the fourth day of the eleventh month, at 8:59 in the evening. After the funeral period had passed and arrangements had been made for Anduin’s nursing, Varian found his thoughts returning to the clock he had been so quick to dismiss. In a moment of fretful wandering, he appeared at the door to his late queen’s closet and dug out the boxes they had had packed away after their wedding. 

Wedged between a hat box and some kind of porcelain bowl, he found it. Its gold arms still jutted in the same directions: one to the sixth hour, and another just past the third quarter. The king set his lips in a line, tucked it into the pocket of his blue silk robe, and set it on the corner of his desk to ponder whenever his thoughts strayed to disappointment or isolation.

He brought the pocket watch with him to Northrend, then took to wearing it as he oversaw the many clashes and conflicts between the Alliance and the Horde. He had it on him the day he learned that Deathwing had been slain, and hastily shoved it in his pocket on his way to the ship that would fare him to Lion’s Landing in Krasarang Wilds. He worriedly fumbled with it as he paced his office pleading for his son’s life and pulled it out more and more often as his troops assembled and prepared to knock down the sealed gates of Orgrimmar. 

He had it on him, too, when he lunged forward with Shalamayne drawn and stayed the blow that should have killed Garrosh Hellscream. Wiping his sweaty palms on his undershirt after they returned to their airship, his fingers strayed to the small, round bulge in the pocket over his heart. He gave its gold chain a tug and withdrew it, blowing away a few flecks of sand that had sneaked into his armor, then flicked open the lid hiding its face.

His heart all but stopped. The hands of the clock had fallen out of place. Now they hung downwards—one at the four, and another just shy of thirty-five minutes. He shook it once, then again, but they didn’t budge. Blood drained from his face and his jaw clenched so tight he felt the ache at the top of his head, but he didn’t let his thoughts stray to the most logical conclusion.Not yet.

There were many soldiers in that room, after all, and even more lives they could have spared by taking Garrosh into custody. He repeated that to himself two or three times so that he could sleep that night, but when they arrived at the trial, and he found himself staring at the captured orc in profile, he _knew_ that all those moments when his thoughts had turned to the clock Garrosh’s name had been there like a whisper lingering on his lips. 

The hour of judgement was set for 12:30 in the afternoon, much to Varian’s relief. As they waited for the Celestials’ verdict, he slipped his hand into his pocket and toyed with the clock’s gold chain, letting it slip between his fingers like water before worrying over the clasp at the furthest end.

‘A soulmate,’ Varian thought to himself as he shifted in his seat. He knew he couldn’t, or shouldn’t, follow that information, but at the very least he didn’t want the possibility snatched out from under him. Maybe if Garrosh lived their circumstances would change. They would meet on the battlefield somewhere, or find themselves trapped together in some demonic prison, leaning on each other for support. 

The potentiality comforted him, even if he firmly believed reality couldn’t permit them to be together. Holding his breath when Garrosh was brought forward in shackles, he found himself silently pleading for his life, against all odds and against every ounce of judgement and reason and realism.

He only had to plead for a moment or two, however, before Garrosh disappeared in a flash and a swirl of sand. In the chaos of the moment, Varian finally unclenched his jaw and moved forward into the fray. He released his grip on the watch, and reached down, instead, to wrap his fingers around the hilt of his sword.

Two years passed. The hands on the watch remained unchanged, and at night, Varian found his thoughts straying more and more often to Garrosh. When the Iron Horde attacked the Blasted Lands, he pressed his troops for news of the former Warchief, but no one knew. When Maraad set out with a company of Alliance troops to advance the war effort, Varian urged—even pleaded—to see Garrosh captured alive and brought back to Stormwind. 

However, one evening, just as Varian had finished tucking a letter into an envelope and was preparing to meet Anduin for supper, the king heard the rap of knuckles at his door. For a moment, he froze, and then with a half-conscious glance towards his watch, he rose and cracked open the door.

Mathias Shaw stood in the hall, his lips set in an unreadable line. With that, Varian knew. 4:35 had come and gone. Standing at the threshold, shoulders squared, jaw clenched, he listened to the spymaster’s report.

Somewhere in the distance, the cathedral bell chimed out five hollow tolls.


	5. Trauma (Wranduin)

_Trauma:_ Soulmates experience each other’s trauma

♥♥♥

Anduin was midway through his calligraphy practice when it happened. His hand stopped. The blood drained from his cheeks, and a breath caught in his throat.

Staring down at the parchment in front of him, he watched the strokes he had made moments before starting to waver as a blurriness crept into the corners of his vision. And then, in a flash, all he could process was pain.

Blinding, heart-wrenching pain that tore into the core of his being. He felt as if he was being torn limb from limb, his skin shredding, and every organ in his body twisting in agony. Not knowing what else to do, he threw back his chair and tried to jump to his feet. He only managed to stagger a step or two before his knees gave out and he bowed forward, forehead to the floor and shoulders shuddering in half-formed sobs. 

Something was happening to him. The thought rose in his mind, only to be quickly subsumed in another black wave of agony. This must be death, though from what, and for what reason he couldn’t have said even if he had been in his right mind.

As he was, he was doing well to continue to suck down a breath. His small fingers clutched at the library’s cold stone floor and he prayed with every ounce of strength he had left for some relief. Finally, he felt a brush of warmth against his fingertips and realized the Light had come to his aid, but even with it forming an orb in his cupped palm he didn’t know where to begin. 

He pressed his hand to his head, then to his heart, then to his other arm, swearing it had been twisted and pulled from its socket, but the pain didn’t subside. With no injuries to heal, no harm to address, the young prince was left at a loss.

All he could do was curl up and cry and hope beyond hope that his teacher stayed away long enough for him to compose himself. If she didn’t, he would be rushed to the healers and his father would likely never let him leave his room again. 

Biting down on his lip and shuddering, Anduin fought to stay conscious. Dark torment became a white-hot pain that cut through him like a knife, and then weight closing in on all sides. He blinked. Tears rolled down his cheeks to splash on the grey stone floor. His chest rose, then fell. The heels of his hands dug into the grout as he pushed himself back upright. 

By the time his teacher returned twenty minutes later the pain was gone. Wiping his eyes on his tunic sleeve, he hastily explained that he’d tripped and fallen in his excitement to get to a book.

She believed him, and, much to his relief, sent for a cup of tea.

♥♥♥

Wrathion had just opened his mouth to respond to a champion when his voice caught in his throat. The shot glass he was holding quivered, a bit of whiskey sloshing over the rim and drizzling down his sleeve. He barely felt the wet trail it left in its wake.

Instead, what he felt was a gasp that gripped his chest in a fist, tugging, choking. Slamming his own hand to his heart, he bowed over. The glass he had been holding slipped from the fingers and shattered on the floor between his feet.

All at once, the weight struck. It broke on his back and rolled over him from the tip of his toes to the nape of his neck. The world around him blurred, then vanished entirely as he teetered on the precipice of consciousness. The voice of the forsaken in front of him was perhaps the only thing keeping him tethered to his thoughts.

“Wrathion? Black Prince? Hey, dragon boy, are you dead?”

He tried to lift his head. It was only then that he realized his turban had slipped down over his eyes. He attempted to reach up and adjust it but found he found his arm immovable—neither in agony nor entirely numb, but in shock, hanging useless in his lap. Just about the only gesture he could manage was to grit his teeth, so he did, demanding that he pull himself together lest he lose face in front of the mortals he supervised. 

Again, the forsaken repeated his name, and again whatever oppressive load he bore drove his torso into his lap. 

He sensed some movement to his left, and then a small hand came to rest against his right shoulder. He couldn’t look up, but from the way the undead shifted and rattled he knew his bodyguards had advanced to flank his sides. Under different circumstances, he would have lifted a hand and dismissively waved them away. Right now, he was doing well to keep from falling off of his bench and onto the floor.

“Sir?” he heard Right murmur under her breath. “Can you stand?”

“I don’t know,” he managed to choke out. The toe of his shoe kicked a shard of glass out of its way, but the other leg wouldn't budge. He tried again. Still nothing. After a few more agonizing moments, Right took a step between him and the champion and slipped her hands under his armpits. 

He felt himself being hoisted up, felt himself falling against the rogue’s leather breastplate. They took a few steps together, and then the forsaken spoke up once more, this time so loudly that even through his haze Wrathion heard every word:

“Is he _drunk?_ He owes me a gem. I did what he asked. Why is he running away?”

“The Black Prince is done for the day,” Left growled. After that, he heard the crunching of glass, then a huff, then a rattle. Whatever his agent had done to protect him, it seemed to have worked, and he would have to thank her for it later. 

For now, though, all he could do was lean against Right and shove down the shame swiftly replacing his pain. He again tried to make use of his feet, and again he stumbled. Hanging his head, he let Right drag him down a small flight of steps and into their private room.

He realized, as he was eased down onto the mat, that he had lost his turban at some point during the walk. His curls, soaked with sweat, clung to his forehead, and his neck and shoulders ached like he had carried a load five times his size.

His gaze strayed back up at Right, and he wanted to call for her, to beg her to stay by his side. All he managed, however, was a sheepish “thank you,” to which she nodded and politely turned her back. 

It would be three days until he was able to stand up again, and three weeks before his soulmate hobbled into his tavern.


End file.
